


The End Resting Only On Air

by lettered



Series: Words And Not Deeds [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage, comeplay I guess, reference to bdsm, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 15:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: They don't ask each other or even really talk about it, but somehow Rick and Daryl end up married.





	The End Resting Only On Air

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for Ash for Fandom Trumps Hate. It's the end of the Words and Not Deeds series. I might some day write other fics to fill in the time between The Conduct of One Hour and this fic, but this is it for now. Thanks so much to Ash for their donation and inspiration for this fic. <3

It started in a jewelry store.

Sophia was graduating college, and Daryl wanted to get her something nice. Real nice. Different. He’d given her stuff over the years: first pair of cowboy boots, the BB gun. Him and Carol had got that piece of shit station wagon Daryl had fixed up at the garage, and Daryl had given her some money to help her pay for her fancy school.

But she was graduating now, gonna be a journalist. She was going to _Belize_ , and the only thing Daryl knew about that was it was south. 

He wanted to get her pearls. Or maybe, like, a diamond. Only there was probably something wrong with diamonds, her being all enlightened and shit. Didn’t diamonds come from Africa? He wanted to get her something beautiful and delicate and special, something that would mean something.

Rick was getting her this solar charger thing for her phone. “It’s practical,” he’d said. “You can use it.”

Rick didn’t understand. He could be such a dweeb sometimes.

So there Daryl was, mulling over the case, which was full of flashy stuff that was too expensive. That usually wouldn’t’ve mattered, for Sophia, but the stuff in the case was too bling anyway. It didn’t suit her; he just wanted something pretty. 

After nearly twenty minutes of looking, he found it: a pearl, shaped like a tear drop, held onto a little pendant hook by petals of silver. This was it, exactly the sort of thing he wanted, and when he asked the lady how much it was she said a hundred. She brought it out of the case for him and he held it in his big rough hand and thought that even though it was so pretty it was small. Maybe he could spend a little more, but then the lady said maybe he’d like to look at chains to go with it. That was when he realized the pearl thing weren’t a whole necklace.

“Yeah,” he said, giving back the pearl thing. She put it in this velvet-covered tray. “I’ll take a look at chains.”

The lady took the tray and went into the back. Daryl didn’t have to look in the cases no more so he moved over, so other folks could look. It weren’t that crowded but it weren’t like the shop were empty, neither. Daryl stood to the side, shuffling. He probably should’ve worn nicer clothes to come in here. Rick liked all Daryl’s shirts with no sleeves. He thought Daryl’s arms were hot.

Rick really was a flaming queer.

So there Daryl was, just standing there, and he just happened to glance down where he was standing now, which weren’t by the little pendants and things. It was by the rings.

Not, like, diamond rings. Silver rings and gold ones, thick bands. You didn’t see girls wear these kinds of rings. _Some girls would_ , said Sophia’s voice in his head. _Not the ones in ads,_ he said back. The rings were braided silver, some with gold strips, some shiny, some sort of rough. Daryl didn’t see any of those. His gaze had already got stuck.

It was a thick plain silver band. Simple. Just a piece of metal. Nothing special about it. Daryl couldn’t take his eyes off it.

The lady came back with the chains, started showing them. They were shimmery in her hands, pretty.

Daryl put his finger on the case, smudging up the glass. “How much is that?”

The lady glanced down. “Which one?”

“That one.” Daryl jammed his finger on the glass.

The lady opened up the case, reached her hand in.

 _I don’t wanna look at it_ , Daryl almost snapped, but he did wanna look at it. He wanted to—

“This one?” said the lady.

Daryl jammed his finger again. “The one without any—that one,” he said, as the lady’s hand moved over the rings. 

She took the nice one and put it on the tray with the chains she’d brought. “This is white gold, with a satin finish,” she said.

Daryl didn’t care what the hell kinda finish it had. “It’s for my brother,” he blurted.

“How nice,” said the lady. “It’s a very sturdy ring.”

“He’s getting out of jail,” Daryl said.

The lady swallowed. “It would make a very nice celebration gift.”

“How much?” Daryl croaked.

“Six hundred and twenty-five.” 

Too much. Far, far too much. 

“Would you like to try it on?” the lady said.

Daryl made himself look away. “Nah.” He shrugged. “We—we ain’t the same size anyway. He’s—scrawny.”

“We have different sizes,” said the lady. “We can have it fit your brother perfectly.”

Daryl’s eyes slid back over to her. “How much’s that? Getting a different size.”

“It’s usually not extra,” said the lady.

Daryl made himself look in the tray, but instead he saw the chains. He couldn’t look at the ring. He couldn’t. “I want that one,” he said, jabbing at the thinnest chain. It was slender, delicate. It’d look good with the pearl thing.

“Did you want to see other sizes?” said the lady. “For the ring?”

“No,” said Daryl. “I ain’t . . . I ain’t gonna get it.”

“That’s okay,” said the lady, picking up the ring so she could put it back in the case.

“Yet,” Daryl added.

She looked up at him.

“My brother—he ain’t . . . he ain’t getting out. Yet.” The lady was reaching back into the case. “But I might,” Daryl added.

She looked up again, just about to put the ring back.

“Get it for him,” Daryl said, nonsensically. “I might get it for him. When he gets out.”

The lady smiled. “It will be here.”

Daryl made himself look at the ring again. _Brushed white gold. Six-hundred and twenty-five dollars._ Daryl wanted it. He wanted it like a physical ache. God, it was so stupid.

*

Sophia’s graduation ceremony was nice. Green lawn. White chairs. Someone important gave a speech; Sophia walked across the stage and took her diploma—rolled up scroll with a red ribbon. No one really threw hats, which movies had led Daryl to believe was what happened at graduations.

Carol cried. Tobin hugged her while Rick hugged Sophia. Carl weren’t there—he lived in D.C., Christ—but Judith was, nine years old and in a pretty blue dress. Daryl gave Sophia the necklace and she cried too. She was leaving for Belize the very next week. When she said she was gonna miss her family, Rick put his hand on Daryl’s shoulder, squeezed. Nothing else, though. They never did nothing queer in public.

The next day Daryl took off hunting. Rick didn’t ask no question about it. Probably thought Daryl needed time, what with Sophia graduating, going to another country, getting all grown up and leaving him behind. 

_Family_ , Sophia had called them. The ache he’d felt when she’d said it was precisely the same as the ache when he’d looked at that silver band on that velvet tray. Rick was right; Daryl did need time.

He needed six hundred dollars.

*

A week passed; Sophia went to Belize. Daryl started picking up more shifts at the garage.

*

“Another late shift,” Rick said, three weeks after Sophia had left.

“Yeah,” said Daryl. “Someone brought in a Honda. You know how I feel about them.”

“Really?” Rick said innocently. “You have something against Hondas?” 

Grunting, Daryl went to the kitchen. Grabbed himself a beer, started rummaging in the fridge. 

“There’s leftovers,” said Rick, who’d followed. “If you want them.”

Daryl shot him a suspicious glance. Rick rarely even bothered to _eat_ unless Daryl were around, much less cook. Something was up. 

Rick was standing there with a hand on his hip, lips pressed together. Speaking posture. It annoyed Daryl when Rick got like this. Hoss couldn’t just _talk_ , say what was on his mind. You had to suffer the glares of his disappointment, them sad blue eyes.

Daryl turned back to the fridge. “Say what you gotta say, man.” 

“I know you’re upset about Sophia.”

“Huh?” Daryl pulled his face back out of the fridge.

“It’s hard,” Rick said. “When they grow up. When they leave. And with Carol married now . . .”

Daryl shook his hair out of his eyes so he could see Rick better.

Rick didn’t say nothing else.

The fridge was still hanging open, cool air brushing Daryl’s chest.

“I made ravioli,” said Rick.

Daryl turned back to the fridge. Sure enough, there was a pan in there, foil over the top. One of Daryl’s favorites. Taking out the pan, Daryl pretended not to see Rick still standing there, waiting for something else.

“Thanks,” Daryl finally said, once his back was to Rick and he’d got the stove fired up under the pan.

Rick crossed the kitchen. Put his hand on the back of Daryl’s neck and squeezed in that way that made Daryl shiver, then wandered back to the living room, where he’d been doing paperwork with the news on in the background.

Three hundred dollars to go.

*

Once, years ago, Rick had talked about setting up a joint savings account. “For emergencies, vacations. You know, groceries.”

“You think I ain’t paying enough?” Daryl had said.

Rick had looked aggravated. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Daryl did know what he meant. Rick had bought the house two years before that conversation. He’d bought it with a partner in mind and that partner had been Daryl. They’d already been living together for a year and a half before he bought it, and before the final sale they’d already agreed on how to split the mortgage. They’d already been splitting the groceries, toilet paper, hand soap. Getting a joint savings account wouldn’t make things much different; they’d just have to think about it less.

But to do it, they’d have to sit in front of a bank man. Side by side. Talk about what they wanted, sign a piece of paper. Both their names, one on top of the other. Even if they didn’t explain why they wanted it, the bank man would know. “We’d have to go together,” Daryl finally said. “To the bank.”

Rick had looked away. The angle of his jaw was so, so disappointed.

“Rick,” Daryl had said, his heart twisting.

“Can’t you just, for once . . .” Trailing off, Rick bared his teeth. Too frustrated to think of what to say.

Rick thought he was a coward. Daryl _knew_ that, even if Rick would never say it, but about this, Daryl didn’t really care what Rick thought. He was the way he was, so he shrugged. “’M not built that way.”

“Yeah.” Rick turned away, the resignation in his slumped shoulders worse than a knock-down drag-out fight would’ve been. Jesus, sometimes Daryl knew what Lori meant—he wished Rick would yell at him.

Rick would probably fuck him real hard that night. Daryl hated himself for looking forward to it.

That had been three years ago. Daryl thought about it now and was glad he’d stood his ground, glad Rick had no way of knowing Daryl was saving money.

Hundred and forty dollars to go.

*

“Been working late a lot,” Rick said, five weeks after Sophia left for Belize.

Daryl grunted. They were sitting in front of the TV, drinking beers. “Lot of cars,” he finally said.

“Yeah. There anything else?”

Daryl’s gaze slid over to him. Lingered on the long, hard line of Rick’s thigh, then slid back over to the TV. “It’s just busy, Rick.”

“When’s the last time you talked to Sophia?”

“Monday.” Daryl took a sip of beer. “Why?”

“You’ve been going hunting more, too.”

Daryl’s gaze slid back over to him—Rick, his short gray beard, graying hair, still curly, those baby blues, still so beautiful after all this time. God. Such a fucking lady killer, and he belonged to Daryl.

Ninety dollars. Just ninety dollars away.

“It ain’t nothing,” Daryl said softly.

Rick tilted his head, jaw flexing. He definitely thought it was something.

Daryl put his beer down. Put his hand on Rick’s thigh.

Rick frowned.

“It ain’t nothing,” Daryl said again, sliding his hand up. “Just—just wanna get more money in case . . .” Daryl got off the couch, down on his knees. Moving closer to Rick.

Rick’s frown deepened, but he reached out, got his hand in Daryl’s hair. “In case? You mean, for Sophia?”

“Nah.” Slowly, Daryl began opening Rick’s pants. He didn’t want to lie. “Just—just thinking about things.”

Rick’s hand stopped playing in his hair, and Daryl looked up. “Things?” was all Rick said.

“With Carl gone. Sophia gone. Things’re different.”

“Yeah.” Rick held his eyes another moment, then lifted his hips a little. Got his pants down a few inches, easier access, then pulled his briefs down as Daryl took his cock out. “Still good, though,” Rick added, as Daryl put his hand around the slowly hardening shaft, bending his head to it.

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed. He licked the wet head. “It’s still good.”

*

Daryl finally got enough money to get the ring, so he did. Took off hunting for a few days right after he got it, so he wouldn’t have to think about what to do about it.

“You wanna talk?” Rick said, when Daryl got back, after Daryl had showered and eaten.

Daryl froze, the ring burning a a six-hundred and twenty-five dollar hole in his pocket. Six hundred and eighty, with taxes.

Finally, he realized Rick was talking about the amount Daryl had been working, the way he kept going off. Rick was used to the way Daryl sometimes needed to go off into the woods just to deal—usually after visiting Merle in prison—but Daryl knew he’d been worse than usual, lately. Slowly, he made himself relax. “Nah,” he finally said.

“Okay,” said Rick, turning away. “Judy needs help with math.”

Lori was gonna come soon to pick her up, and Daryl’d been out so he hadn’t got to see her all weekend. “Hey, Asskicker,” Daryl said, sitting down with her at the kitchen table.

“Did you kill anything?”

“A rabbit.”

“Ew,” Judy opined. “Can I go with you next time?”

“Rick said you need to work on math.”

“It’s just fractions,” said Judy. “I know fractions.”

“Yeah?” Daryl pulled her paper over. “Seven-eighths times one-sixteenth? You got that?”

“Dad says you went without us ‘cause you miss Sophia.”

“You ain’t gotta find a common denominator,” said Daryl. “It’s multiplication.” Judy didn’t say anything and Daryl kept looking at the paper, circling the ones she’d got wrong,

“Dad said I gotta keep you company,” Judy said, after another minute.

He looked up. “What?”

“He says you like taking care of people, and now Sophia’s gone you got no one to take care of, it makes you sad.”

Daryl looked back down at the paper. 

“I said we should get a dog,” said Judy.

“How’d that work for you?”

Judy rolled her eyes.

Putting the paper down, Daryl looked at her—Judith and her blonde hair; who knew where she got that from, and her frowny face. “Your dad’s wrong. I already got someone to take care of.”

“Me?”

“You take care of yourself.” Daryl went on checking her math.

“Cat?” Judith guessed. Cat didn’t have a name. She was just a cat.

“Nah,” said Daryl. 

“Who?”

Daryl circled some things.

“Daryl.” Judith poked him. “Who?”

“Your pops.”

“Dad?”

“You know he don’t eat right, works too hard. Don’t sleep good either, so I gotta take care of him. Just like you do.”

“Just like I do?” When Daryl didn’t answer, she went on, “I don’t take care of Dad.”

“Sure, you do.” Daryl was done circling, but he held onto the paper, doodling a bit. “He takes care of you; you take care of him.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t make him dinner, or help him with fractions, or anything like that.”

Daryl looked down at his doodles. “Hugs and kisses.”

“What?”

“Hugs and kisses. That’s how you take care of him.”

“Oh. Is that how he takes care of you?”

Judith had seen them kiss plenty of times, but Daryl could still feel his face heat up. Judith had asked questions about it before, knew what they were, but she’d grown up with it. It was familiar to her, so it weren’t something they constantly had to talk about, explain. It was just the way things were, so talking about it still made Daryl feel a little funny. With the ring in his pocket, his stomach was flipping. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “That’s how he takes care of me.”

“I’d rather someone made me dinner,” said Judith.

Daryl snorted. “Let’s do your homework,” he said. “Before your other parents get here.”

*

Now that Daryl had it, he couldn’t figure out what to do with the ring. 

He knew what he wanted. He wanted Rick to have it, but Daryl didn’t know how to give it to him. He didn’t want to have to explain it, why he’d got it. He just wanted Rick to have it. Then Rick could—he could—well, Rick could do whatever the fuck he wanted with it; it wouldn’t be Daryl’s problem anymore. Rick would have a white gold ring with a satin finish and Daryl’s life would feel fucking complete. Like he’d did all he could to make that life a good one.

Sometimes Rick knew what Daryl wanted. Would do it without asking. More often, though, Daryl had to spell it out, which was a bitch. It was a bitch but Daryl had learned how to do it, learned because Rick wanted him to. Rick wanted Daryl to ask for what he wanted because Rick wanted to give Daryl what he wanted, and sometimes Rick couldn’t do that unless Daryl told him what it was.

But Daryl didn’t know how to tell him. _I want you to have this_ was fucking inadequate, but _please take this or I’ll lose my goddamn mind_ was pathetic.

So the ring just sat there—sometimes in a sock at the back of the dresser drawer, where Daryl still kept cigarettes and Rick had tacitly agreed not to look—but most of the time in Daryl’s pocket. Just in case he found a way to do it, a way to give it to him. 

Every once in a while Daryl’d take it out and look at it. White gold with a satin finish. Nothing fancy about it, really. It was just a thing. Not important in the grand scheme. Then Daryl’d squeeze it in his fist and push it back down into his pocket, have a smoke, go for a drive on the bike, try not to think about it.

*

“We should go camping,” Rick said.

They were doing dishes, and Daryl’d felt jittery at dinner. He had the ring in his pocket again, but Rick had been talking about work and then it didn’t seem right, giving it to him over dishes, and now with this camping thing.

Daryl rinsed a plate and put it in the dishwasher. Rick was still putting the silverware away from the clean load.

“Maybe it’d help you relax,” Rick added, after another two minutes.

Daryl rinsed the bowls, the cups, the silverware. The pans needed to be scrubbed. Put in to soak, maybe.

Rick didn’t say nothing more, but Daryl could feel the weight of the silence. 

This would go on, if Daryl let it. Rick would say something, like an opening to a conversation, but he wouldn’t say what he really meant. Daryl wouldn’t rise to the bait, and Rick wouldn’t force it, but then Rick just wouldn’t talk, like he were still waiting for Daryl to reply. Then Daryl wouldn’t say nothing neither because there was nothing to say without Rick saying something. Sometimes that went on for days. Sophia called it The Freeze. Carl called them idiots.

“Don’t need to relax,” Daryl finally said, because he didn’t feel like The Freeze. Not right now. Squeezing soap into the pan, he turned the water on.

“Well, something’s wrong with you,” Rick said, finally turning away from the silverware. “I know it’s hard, with the kids gone, Carol married. I know you’ve had a lot of work; I know sometimes I—”

“Nah,” Daryl interrupted, ‘cause Rick was gonna say something bad about himself. He turned to face Rick, who pressed his lips together. Daryl shook his hair outta his face. “It ain’t that.”

Rick just stood there, waiting.

Daryl could feel the ring like a lodestone in his pocket. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said finally, because whenever Rick looked at him that way Daryl got defensive. God. Rick could see right down into him.

And Rick just kept doing it, jaw clenched, all of him clenched, but his eyes—his eyes were so lonely. Blue. Sad.

He missed Sophia too, and Carl, and Daryl hadn’t really thought about how much until this moment.

Christ.

Daryl walked around the open dishwasher. Over to Rick. Thrust his hand down in his pocket, closed around the ring. “Ain’t nothing wrong,” he said again. 

He couldn’t hold the ring out, like he was forcing Rick to take it. He’d just . . . he’d just show it to Rick, what had been distracting him lately, and if Rick wanted, he could take it. Pulling his fist out of his pocket, Daryl opened his hand.

The ring looked so normal on his palm. Just a bit of metal.

Rick looked at it. Looked up at Daryl. Looked down at it again.

Daryl couldn’t hear Rick breathing.

The moment stretched out, and Daryl thought it was good he’d just been showing Rick. He could just close his hand, put it back in his pocket—

Rick stopped him. Grabbed Daryl’s wrist. “Daryl.”

Daryl swallowed hard, but he didn’t try to take his hand away. “Saw it when I got Sophia that pearl.”

“You . . . bought it?”

Daryl shook his head. “I didn’t . . . didn’t have enough money.”

Rick looked down at the ring, then back up at Daryl. “This is what’s been bothering you.”

“I ain’t bothered,” said Daryl. 

Rick stared at him. Without breaking the gaze, he picked up the ring.

Swallowing again, Daryl followed the piece of silver with his eyes. Rick slid it on—his ring finger—and Daryl’s breath caught. The ring fit perfectly.

Rick was wearing it. He had it and he was _wearing_ it. Daryl’d never even gotten that far, thinking about it. Rick was wearing it on his ring finger, left hand.

Rick had had a ring on that finger when Daryl had first met him.

Daryl licked dry lips. “Rick.”

“Yeah,” said Rick, who kissed him. “Yeah,” Rick said, and then was kissing him again.

It was a good kiss. A great kiss, but then, Rick had always been good at kissing. Daryl’d gotten good at it too, over the years, but this time he stood there distractedly, Rick’s warm lips pressing against his. Rick’s tongue licked the seam of Daryl’s lips, Rick’s mouth sinking into his like they were made to fit together.

“Daryl,” Rick said, when he pulled away. “Darlin’.”

Daryl couldn’t look at him; he had to see the ring again. He had to look at it on Rick’s finger—like a mark, a brand. Daryl picked up Rick’s hand.

“Darlin’.” Rick kissed him again.

Daryl kissed him back, this time feeling the ring—the strong flex of Rick’s fingers as Rick’s tongue pushed into Daryl’s mouth. The hard metal against Rick’s skin, his bones, blood and muscle as Rick licked Daryl’s teeth. Daryl squeezed Rick’s hand, feeling the way the flesh gave a little but the ring did not. Christ. He needed to look at it again.

Ripping his mouth away, Daryl stepped back, brought Rick’s hand up. 

“That’s why you were putting extra hours in,” Rick said.

“Yeah.”

“Daryl.” Rick moved closer so Daryl couldn’t see it. His lips whispered over Daryl’s, closing over Daryl’s lower lip, pulling it in. Daryl opened his mouth for the kiss again.

He should’ve known Rick would get it. Rick always got it, and in the scheme of things, nothing would be different. They were paying mortgage on a house together. They’d bought a car together—Daryl’d thought it’d be nice to drive something smaller than a truck every once in a while, and left to his own devices, Rick would’ve just bought another Honda. They’d helped bring up three kids together. They waited up for one another after work. They washed each other’s laundry. Sometimes they showered together. They had a cat.

Little bit of metal didn’t change any of that, didn’t make it anything more or less—but Daryl pulled back to look at it again.

Rick pressed his forehead against Daryl’s.

That was okay. Daryl could still see the ring. He played with Rick’s fingers.

“Sweetheart,” Rick murmured.

Daryl just couldn’t stop _looking_ at it.

Rick kissed him again, for a while, but eventually he was opening Daryl’s jeans, sliding a hand in. That was okay. Rick was right-handed.

Stroking Daryl’s cock, Rick kissed Daryl on his cheek, his temple. Sucked on his ear lobe, then whispered, low and hot in Daryl’s ear. “Get hard for me. I’m gonna make you feel good.”

Daryl’d never been responsive—not like Rick, anyway. He still usually took longer to come, but the words in his ear made his dick jump in Rick’s hand. He hadn’t been thinking about it. Usually he had to be concentrating to come, and Daryl had been distracted.

“You wanna see it touch you?” Rick said.

Daryl struggled to pull his gaze away from the ring to look at Rick’s face, trying to figure out what he meant.

“Want me to touch you with it,” Rick asked, “see it stroke you?”

Something stabbed through Daryl—fear, embarrassment, desire; he didn’t know, worried that it was weird how much he liked it, how much it meant to him to see it, and that Rick _knew_ —but Rick was already bringing his left hand up. Licking it. Wrapping it around Daryl’s dick. Beginning to stroke, and Daryl whimpered, because he couldn’t look. He couldn’t look. That was too much, seeing the ring on the finger on the hand that was stroking him—his ring, the one he’d given Rick, the one Rick had slipped onto his finger without hesitation, this ring. Rick’s hand.

Oh God.

Daryl couldn’t look away.

He wanted to feel it—the metal brushing against his cock, but he couldn’t; Rick wasn’t squeezing his cock hard enough, and even if he had been, Daryl was still likely to only feel the pads of Rick’s fingers. The ring was snug, a good fit; Daryl was glad he’d guessed right about the size, and couldn’t explain why he wanted to feel it so badly. 

This was some ridiculous kink, something he’d never heard of—because it wasn’t the pain of the ring scraping his dick that he wanted; it wasn’t the feeling of harshness, the alien feeling of metal instead of flesh. It wasn’t any of that; it was just this ring. This particular ring, white gold, satin finish, the way Rick had put it on unquestioningly.

Fuck. Just . . . fuck. Rick was wearing his ring. Daryl’s heart hurt. He was gonna take forever to come.

Rick whispered in his ear. “Do you want me to put it in you?”

“Rick.” Daryl’s voice broke, and he grabbed Rick’s arm, and then he realized he hadn’t been touching Rick at all. Been doing nothing while Rick stroked him and kissed him and put his ring on, just like in the early days when they’d still been dating and Daryl hadn’t known how to kiss right, and Rick had had to tell him to touch him. 

Daryl’d learned to do it right, learned how to respond, make Rick feel good—sometimes Rick still said stuff like that, _touch me, put your hands on me, kiss me_ , but he did it because Daryl liked it. Daryl liked when he got feedback, knew what Rick wanted, got told what to do, even if he’d never admit it. Rick knew, told him that stuff just to be hot, even though Daryl was good at it now. Mostly good.

Turning his ear from Rick’s mouth, Daryl caught Rick’s lips with his own, kissed him, messy and uncoordinated. Fumbled with his hands, getting one on Rick’s neck to pull him closer, but the other down over Rick’s left hand, still on Daryl’s cock. Tugged it, linking fingers—he had to touch it. He had to touch it, feel the ring—he couldn’t look at it if he was kissing Rick.

Rick indulged him, letting Daryl plunder his mouth, but slowly he disengaged, pulled back. “Come on,” he said, tugging Daryl’s hand, the one still holding Rick’s.

They got to the bedroom, separating long enough to undress, Daryl having trouble because he was still trying to catch sight of that flash of silver while Rick stripped down. God, it was so stupid. Daryl didn’t know why he ached to see it.

“Spread out for me,” Rick said, so Daryl did, naked and legs open on the bed.

They hadn’t done it this way in a while, real life taking its toll, Daryl being gone so much that they’d sometimes frotted under the sheets, the occasional hand job, the occasional blow job. Mostly they’d just been going to bed, too busy or tired or distracted to go for broke like this—completely naked, Daryl on his back with his legs spread, Rick taking the time to finger him open.

Rick smeared lube on his left hand and Daryl tried to watch as Rick pushed his ring finger in, but he had to contort himself to see it perfectly. At last he relaxed, lay back, waiting to feel it go all the way in, hoping to feel the brush of metal as Rick’s knuckles pressed against his hole. Daryl wasn’t gonna feel it this way neither—no matter how deep Rick pressed his fingers, the metal was too warm by now to feel any different against his ass anyway.

He just wanted to feel it.

“Good,” Rick murmured. “That’s good; you feel so good.”

Daryl squirmed. Maybe if Rick went harder, he’d feel it better. 

“Hold on.” Getting the picture, Rick put more fingers in. Then he was sawing his fingers in and out, hard, thrusting his fingers up into Daryl, curling to find that spot, sensation shooting straight to Daryl’s cock in a way that made him cry out, but Daryl still couldn’t feel it. He still couldn’t feel his ring on Rick’s finger inside of him.

“Rick,” Daryl said, twisting under him.

“Yeah.” Rick moved over him, still thrusting inside with his fingers, moving so his face was over Daryl’s and he could feel him.

“Rick,” Daryl croaked.

“Tell me,” said Rick. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t—” Daryl twisted again. “I can’t—” His fingers were too much and not enough, and Daryl couldn’t see his ring; he couldn’t feel it, even though just the _thought_ that it was close to being inside of him was making him crazy—

“Okay,” said Rick. “Okay.” Pulling his fingers out, he replaced them with cock—slow and thick and inexorable, exactly what Daryl needed.

“Fuck,” Daryl exhaled. “Yeah. Fuck.” Arching, his hand scrambled for Rick’s, fingers tangling—feeling the ring as Rick began fucking him, and fucking him, hard and sure and deep and everything, yeah. “Yeah,” Daryl said, squeezing Rick’s hand.

“Good,” Rick said, fucking Daryl, squeezing back with his hand. “So good, baby. You’re so good for me.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed, because he was hard. He was so, so hard; he was gonna get off this way—with Rick fucking him, and Rick’s hand—Daryl brought it down to his cock, Rick’s hand with the ring on it, his own over it, guiding it to touch, to stroke while Rick fucked him.

“Jesus Christ,” Rick said, and came.

Daryl used Rick’s hand to stroke himself, building as Rick came inside of him, feeling the ring on the hand on his cock, and goddamn, it was good. It was so good. The best it’d been in a while, with Rick on top of him, slowing, breathing hard, sweating. It was always so good; they were good; imagine not having this. Christ, Daryl didn’t know how he’d got this, how he still had it. After all this time.

He shot off just as Rick was ending, and Rick just lowered his body onto Daryl’s, trapping their hands and Daryl’s dick, Rick’s lips right by Daryl’s ear. “Yeah, do it,” Rick mumbled. “Keep doing it.” Sometimes Daryl wondered whether Rick even knew what he said at times like these; Rick weren’t really a talker, but he’d gotten so used to murmuring encouragement, saying the right things when Daryl needed them.

“You’ve got it, keep going,” Rick said, but Daryl’s hips were slowing and his cock didn’t have anything left to give. 

“Just a little more,” Rick muttered, and bit his ear.

Daryl’s hips gave a pathetic little twitch. 

“I want all of that come,” Rick said.

Daryl grunted. “Stop.”

Rick bit his ear again, pulling his hand out from between them. “Lick it for me,” he said, and Christ.

Christ.

Daryl’d never seen this in a porno, never read about it in any dirty magazines. Never heard of anyone losing their mind over a goddamn ring, but he couldn’t help it; he wanted to lick it so bad—the finger that had been inside of him, the finger now smeared with his own come, the finger with his ring on it. At first Daryl just licked, like Rick had told him to, but then Rick pressed his ring finger against Daryl’s lips. Daryl’s mouth opened; he sucked it, and Rick fucked it in and out of his mouth, lazily, kissing Daryl’s face while Daryl sucked.

Eventually Rick rolled off of him, pulling his finger out. They stopped touching, beginning to breathe normally again, sweat drying. Daryl kept Rick’s finger within his sightline, and eventually Rick turned on his pillow to face him.

Rick looked lazy and content. Satisfied. Gorgeous. 

Daryl’s ring was on the finger where Lori’s once had been. 

“Wanna go to the courthouse?” Rick said.

Daryl didn’t understand why they’d go to the courthouse this late at night. Or at all. Courthouses were for when you did something wrong, and he hadn’t done nothing wrong. It weren’t usual—the ring, Daryl’s fetish with it, Rick wearing it—but it weren’t like it was illegal. Might not be normal, but it still wasn’t illegal. 

It wasn’t illegal. Then Daryl realized what Rick was saying. 

It was legal now.

Daryl’s brain couldn’t think past that. It was legal.

Didn’t used to be, but now it was.

It was a legitimate thing that people could do. People even talked about it. Sophia had asked him about it once, just like it weren’t shameful. Like it was a normal everyday thing that you could be, a part of who you were, like tall or short, blue-eyed or brown.

“We don’t have to,” said Rick. “But we can.”

The world was still a shithole, but they could.

They could.

Daryl pulled back, got up on his elbow. His heart was in his throat. “You want to?”

“If you do.”

“That ain’t the same.”

Rick looked up at him. “I don’t need to, Daryl. I’m asking if you want to.”

Disturbed, Daryl sat up the rest of the way. “You’d do it just because I wanna?”

Licking his lips, Rick turned his head away. After a long minute, he sighed, sitting up as well. “I made a commitment,” he said. “A long time ago. To Lori. I broke it. I didn’t mean to break it, but I did, because I changed. There’s no way to promise I won’t change again. But the man I am right now . . .” Rick shrugged. “The man I am right now is committed to you. I’d put that down in writing any time. I’d do it today.”

“Today?” Daryl croaked.

Rick’s mouth curved at the side, that cute little smile he did that made him look far, far younger and ridiculously charming. “If you want.”

“You ain’t . . . You ain’t had no time to think about it.”

The smile fell away as Rick rolled his eyes. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

 _No,_ Daryl wanted to shout, because it was hard to take, that this wasn’t big for Rick, that it wasn’t new, that it wasn’t a surprise—even though for Daryl, it shouldn’t have been. None of it had seemed any different; none of it was going to be any different. It was just a ring, just a bit of metal. He hadn’t meant for it to change anything; he’d just wanted it so, so bad.

“But I been thinking about it,” Daryl said finally. “With the—I had to buy the ring; I had to think about that. You ain’t had no time.”

“Christ. Daryl,” Rick said, sounding annoyed. “You really think it’s something I’d do on a whim?”

Daryl’s hands twitched. He needed a smoke, chewed his lip instead, trying to think.

“Fine,” Rick said. “Stay here.” 

Getting out of bed, Rick walked out of the room, buck naked, leaving Daryl on the bed, still trying to put things together: it was legal, they could do it, Rick said it was a promise he’d already made. Just sign and make it official. That was all.

Less than a minute had passed when Rick came back with the calendar. They mostly only used it to keep track of when they had Judith, though once or twice Daryl had written “Carol” in it and circled it. Rick would tell him about other things—doctors or Michonne or Glenn and Maggie—and never write them down. Daryl had a terrible memory and often forgot, but for some reason it never persuaded either of them to use the calendar more.

Rick got on the bed with a calendar and a pen, still naked. _Are you serious_ , Daryl wanted to ask, but obviously, Rick was. “The sixth?” Rick asked.

“That’s only a week,” Daryl pointed out.

Rick looked up at him. Daryl could feel it, but he was back to looking at Rick’s ring. “Yeah,” Rick said, in his slow, dubious way, and went back to looking at the calendar. “A month from now? That work for you?”

Silence hung in the air for long enough that Daryl finally made himself pull his gaze away from the ring. _You don’t have to_ , he wanted to say, but that’d be annoying. Rick already knew that, had made a point of saying he knew that.

A month. A whole month so Rick could change his mind, decide they didn’t need to. A whole month for Daryl to wrap his brain around it, when Rick said it was already a part of who he was. 

Rick’s gaze softened. “Daryl, we don’t need to.”

“Yeah.” Daryl licked his lips. “A month. That’s—that’s good.”

“You sure you want to?”

 _Are you?_ But Daryl knew Rick. He wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t want it. “Yeah,” Daryl finally said, his voice rough. “It’s—yeah.”

“Okay. Good. The twenty-seventh?” Daryl nodded his head, and Rick wrote on the calendar. “That’s good,” he said again. Afterwards he put it aside, leaned in and kissed Daryl briefly. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he said. Got up. Headed off to the bathroom.

Daryl stared at the calendar on the bed, just looking at it, like you would an ant, a spider. Finally, he picked it up. Looked at it.

Saturday, the twenty-seventh. June. Rick had planned it like you would a doctor’s appointment, a trash pickup day, possibly seeing a movie. Nothing written in, scribbled on the square. Just a big circle around the twenty-seventh.

Saturday, the twenty-seventh. Twenty-eight days away.

The circle was like the ring. Daryl couldn’t take his eyes off it.

*

Rick didn’t talk about it after that. He hung the calendar back up in the kitchen. May turned into June; he flipped the page. Twenty-seven days.

Daryl kept expecting the calendar to change somehow—the day to disappear, Rick to cross it out, take the whole year off the wall. Instead the circled day just hung there. Rick didn’t take his ring off neither, though Daryl’s obsession with it improved—at least to the point where they could have sex without holding hands. Daryl still caught himself staring at it when he wasn’t thinking. He stared at the calendar too. Sometimes he felt like the circle stared back at him, a great big old round eye.

He thought about asking someone about it—Sophia, maybe, but she wouldn’t get it. She’d just be happy, think it was neat. Carol wasn’t a good idea either; she’d been weird about Tobin. Weird when she and Tobin had started sleeping together. 

“I just wasn’t raised that way,” she’d said. Daryl had eventually figured out she’d meant sex before marriage, and then he’d wondered what she thought of him—a slut, and a sissy to boot. He knew she’d never judged him for it; it was just about herself—but still. 

When Carol and Tobin moved in together she’d had the same problem. “I shot my first husband,” she said. “Why is this what I feel guilty about?” Daryl guessed it took more than shooting someone to change how you thought about the world—maybe the world needed to change, for that.

But when she’d got married, she _had_ changed, if only for a little while. She’d cooked and cleaned like some kinda maniac, even dressing different. Reminded him of that little housewife who’d showed up at her own trial, never to be seen again until this moment. “I didn’t marry you for cookies and casseroles,” Tobin had told her, trying to get her to cool it.

That’d been nine months ago, and she was only just beginning to get back to her old self. “You just get a certain image in your head of how you’re supposed to be,” Carol had said. “Or maybe, an image of who you once were, and it suddenly seems important. You want to stick to something, no matter how you hated it.”

That was fine, Daryl guessed. He was glad Carol was getting back to normal, but he didn’t want to talk about the twenty-seventh with her. What if she thought _he_ should cook and clean, or maybe that she should cook and clean for him; she would make it a big deal and it wasn’t. Rick wasn’t making a big deal. Rick wasn’t acting like anything unusual was about to happen at all. Daryl guessed he shouldn’t either.

Twenty-five days.

*

Daryl saw Carol that month, but didn’t mention it. Tobin was there anyway, which made it harder to say things about Rick. 

Carol had forgiven him all those years ago, for not telling her about Rick, but that didn’t make it any easier to say things now. It’d been easier to show her, back when she’d finally found out—for her to see Daryl with Rick, not that they really did anything in front of her. For a year after they started going out, they hadn’t kissed in front of a single person. The first time they did do it, it was in front of Carol. She was one of the only people—and of course she’d caught them doing it by accident, Rick sneaking a kiss when he’d thought no one was looking.

Tobin knew, of course. Was all right with it. Tobin himself was a lot of all right, a good guy. A good man. Daryl wouldn’t’ve been cool with Carol marrying him otherwise, not that Daryl could’ve stopped her. Tobin and Daryl were friends—but just not the way Daryl was friends with Carol. He’d never have a friend like her, not ever, and neither would she; what they had was special. Different.

And Daryl still got to be alone with Carol, take her out sometimes, go on walks, restaurants, just talk. But that was only sometimes, because for three years, she’d lived with Tobin, and for almost seven, Daryl had lived with Rick. They weren’t the same people any more, just the same friends.

So when Daryl went to see her they talked about Sophia and Belize, about Tara and Denise, about Glenn and Maggie’s kid. They talked about Judy and Cat and Rick’s car, but not about the ring, or the circled date on the calendar. It hadn’t happened yet anyway, Daryl thought. Sometimes he doubted it really would.

Twelve days to go.

*

On Friday, the twenty-sixth, Rick got home from work late. Daryl scarfed down a sandwich and Rick ate pasta leftovers out of a pan when he got home, talking about something Tara said had happened with Denise. Daryl wondered whether Rick even remembered about tomorrow, but of course he did, because Rick didn’t forget things like that. Finished with the pasta, Rick put the pan in the sink, then they went to hang in the living-room. Rick had paperwork and Daryl tried to watch some stupid race on TV.

After a while, Rick put the paperwork aside. “You still wanna do tomorrow?” he asked, like the whole day could just be skipped over if they decided they didn’t like it. 

Daryl’d been so tense watching NASCAR that he didn’t start at Rick’s sudden words. Stiffly, he pretended to shrug, still looking at the TV. “If you wanna.”

The TV went on blaring and Daryl didn’t know what Rick was doing. Toyota number seventy-eight was speeding past Chevy forty-eight. Rick turned the TV off. “Come here.”

Daryl looked over.

Rick had that serious look on his face, that intense, no-nonsense look, the one Daryl imagined intimidating criminals the whole world over, and the ones who weren’t afraid of it soon would be once they learned what Rick was.

“What do you want?” Daryl asked finally, hoping it was a sex thing. 

Rick lifted his hips. “Come suck me.” 

It should’ve been ridiculous, the way he said it. Like a command. All Daryl could think was _hell yes it_ was _a sex thing._ They weren’t gonna talk about tomorrow. Scrambling off the couch, Daryl went down to his knees, between Rick’s open legs.

“Take it out,” Rick said, almost with disinterest.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fumbling with Rick’s pants, Daryl got them open. Got Rick’s dick out.

“Kiss it,” Rick said, and fuck.

Fuck.

Daryl kissed it, a chaste press of lips against the head of Rick’s cock, and Rick settled back, angling his hips, head leaning back against the back of the couch, hand coming up into Daryl’s hair. “Open your mouth,” Rick said, so Daryl opened it. “Now hold still like a good boy,” Rick said, and Daryl thought he was gonna lose his mind it was so hot. 

Then Rick’s cock was pushing into his mouth, using his mouth, and Daryl relaxed. Almost collapsed in relief, thoughts leaving his head, giving himself over to it, loving it. Fuck. Rick. Rick’s dick.

Staying still just like Rick had said, Daryl took it. Sucked Rick’s cock, slurped on it, took it down his throat when Rick pushed deeper. Couldn’t help moaning just a little, and Rick gripped Daryl’s hair, Rick’s hips grinding up. Rick’s other hand touched Daryl’s cheek to feel the way it hollowed out. “Fuck, yeah.” Rick’s hips twitched. “Take it.”

Daryl’s eyes rolled back in his head. God. Goddamn. Cock. Daryl still loved it after all this time, loved having his mouth on it, his face in it, smelling it, on his knees, being used, tasting it, getting it fed to him.

“Swallow it.” Rick’s hips lifted. “Come on, be good for me.”

Daryl heard himself make a little needy sound, didn’t even mean to, and immediately opened his throat, relaxing his gag reflex, taking more of it. Goddamn, fuck, he wanted all of it.

“That’s it.” The hand on Daryl’s cheek slid down Daryl’s neck to feel the way his throat was full of cock. “Hold still so I can fuck it. Choke on it.”

Daryl held still, and Rick gripped his head and his throat, and began to fuck it. He fucked it and fucked it and Daryl was in heaven; he loved it; he loved it so so much; Rick was magic; he was perfect; he was just so goddamn perfect and Daryl loved him. He loved it.

If Rick could have it his way there’d be understanding and affection and and fucking heart-eyes every time. Didn’t mean Rick didn’t like it rough—sometimes Rick loved it rough, loved it—but he always wanted it equal. Mutual orgasms. No mistreatment.

But while Daryl had learned to do that and be that and touch and hold the way Rick liked, kiss the way Rick liked, find pleasure for himself as well as for Rick, the way Rick liked, sometimes Daryl still needed it like this. Still wanted it like this, even though this was not really Rick’s way of doing things. And Rick would do it anyway because Rick knew him. Rick knew what he wanted and gave it to him, gave it to him and gave it to him and gave it to him, gave him this. 

And Rick was giving it to him right now because he knew it was too much. The twenty-seventh was too much; _you still wanna do tomorrow_ was too much; the ring, the courthouse, the fact that they could. It was terrifying and overwhelming and Daryl didn’t wanna think about it, only wanted to do it to say he’d done it, done it with Rick, have that and have it be over, except Daryl couldn’t think about it, because dick. Rick’s dick. Cock, cock everywhere, filling him up, his mouth his mind his nostrils his dreams everything; he was nothing. He didn’t have to think, and Rick was giving it to him, this escape.

The hand on Daryl’s throat moved to Daryl’s hair, both of Rick’s hands holding his head, pushing it in for Rick to fuck. Daryl’s eyes were watering; breathing was difficult; he was full and used and not completely there, an object for pleasure, something that didn’t have to think. Clumsily, he reached up to one of the hands in his hair—Rick’s left hand, the one with the ring.

“Daryl,” Rick said, his voice choked, and then he came.

He came and came and Daryl couldn’t keep it in his throat. He had to breathe, but he got all the come, and Rick’s hand stroked Daryl’s hair, gentle and loving in a way that nothing about that blowjob had been.

Leaning down, Rick kissed him, tongue stroking up the taste of come inside of Daryl’s cheeks. The kiss and gentle hands messed up the whole façade of not caring Rick had set up for him, but Daryl didn’t mind. He wanted Rick to be handsy, as long as they didn’t have to have no big discussion.

“Yeah,” Daryl said, when Rick pulled away from the kiss. “I . . .” Daryl looked away, realizing he was still on his knees, feeling a little stupid for having needed it so badly. He felt himself flush hard. “I still wanna go tomorrow.”

When he finally looked up, Rick had that little side-smile on, somehow brighter and more real than a great big old grin would’ve been. He weren’t smiling about tomorrow. He was smiling because of how a blowjob like that loosened Daryl up so much. It was more of a smirk, really, but it was hard to be mad—Rick’s eyes were so fucking sunny.

“Come on,” said Rick, moving out from around him, getting off the couch.

Daryl didn’t really feel sour about Rick laughing at him, since it had been so good, but he kinda felt like pretending he felt sour about it.

“Come on,” said Rick, still sounding so fucking amused. “I’ll tie you up.”

Daryl looked up quickly, too eagerly, and Rick did grin then. That fucking asshole.

Daryl went with him anyway, and even though Rick spent way too long trying to pleasure him, he hurt him a little too, just the way Daryl liked. It felt so good that Daryl stopped thinking about tomorrow, and afterwards when Daryl had to go out for a smoke Rick came out too, and stole his cigarette.

They didn’t say anything. The smoke wound up into the blue-black Georgia night, above the porch attached to the house that they owned together. Daryl felt loose, strung out, shirtless on the porch, his mind empty after the orgasm Rick had wrung out of him, and yet his heart was still so full. He should say something—something that encompassed that night and their home and what Rick had done to him, tying him down to the bed—but there was nothing to say that meant all of that.

Instead Daryl put his head on Rick’s shoulder, face against Rick’s neck, something he didn’t do all that often, but Rick didn’t act like it were no thing. Instead, he stubbed out the cigarette, put his hand in Daryl’s hair.

The embrace was everything Daryl had meant to say. The stars said the rest, and somewhere Cat meowed.

Rick huffed a laugh. “Let’s go to bed,” said Rick, so they did.

For once Daryl was big spoon, getting as close as he could, no space between them.

An hour left until the twenty-seventh.

*

When Daryl woke, Rick was in the shower. 

Daryl’d thought about what he was gonna wear, worrying about it in the weeks before-hand while trying not to think about it at all. It was stupid; they were just going to the courthouse. Rick was probably gonna just throw something on and look like a goddamn movie star, just like he always did, and Daryl didn’t wanna be an idiot getting frumped up like some kinda queer. What was he supposed to wear, a white dress? He had nice pants and shoes and a shirt, from when Carol and Tobin did it. He couldn’t decide. 

Rick came out of the shower, smelling like soap and Old Spice. He kissed Daryl absently, said, “I’ll make coffee,” as if there weren’t anything else to think about that day, and Daryl realized they’d never even talked about a time.

Daryl headed into the bathroom for a shower, the hot water settling his nerves. He came out feeling less like a goddamn idiot, and then there was Rick, dressed to the nines.

It weren’t like he’d rented a tux, or anything. It was just a suit, like the one he’d worn for Sophia’s graduation—probably that exact one; he only had two suits and the other one was for court. But he weren’t wearing the court one for today, which was odd when you thought about it since they were going—

Rick looked over at him from where he’d been fiddling with his cuff. “I thought we’d go after breakfast,” he said.

He looked so good. He looked so, so good. Like Matthew McConaughey in them Lincoln commercials, those commercial that were _made_ to make you want him, only Rick looked better. He looked better than that.

“Yeah.” Daryl licked his lips. “After breakfast.”

Daryl got dressed, putting on the nice pants and shoes and shirt. He weren’t gonna look like Rick, Daryl always feeling slightly awkward in fancy clothes, but he didn’t wanna make Rick look like a fool, standing up next to someone who couldn’t even bother to dress up.

In the kitchen, the coffee was just getting done. Left to his own devices, that was all Rick would have for breakfast. Maybe have Trix, if he were feeling adventurous, and Daryl wondered whether when Judy was all grown up Rick’d still be eating junk like that. Idiot would live off the stuff, if he could, so Daryl made eggs and cut up a grapefruit, telling himself he could still one day make Rick eat right, but knowing that maybe in reality he was just trying to delay going to the courthouse.

After they ate Daryl put the dishes in the sink, washing then drying meticulously.

“I’ll drive,” said Rick, and Daryl made himself stop going over and over the mugs. Putting the towel down, they got wallets and keys and phones and fed Cat, then headed out the door.

Not until they were in the car did Daryl realize he had no idea where they were going. He hadn’t even thought about looking it up. Did you really just walk up to a courthouse and sign a paper? Or did you have to tell them you were coming? Did you need a witness? He’d heard something about that once—like it were a crime, and you had to have someone to say what really happened.

“I’ll GPS,” Daryl said, getting out his phone.

“I know where we’re going,” Rick said, pulling out of the driveway.

Driveway weren’t quite the right word for it. Their house was in the woods—only an acre away from the next house, but it weren’t like a subdivision, with paved roads and that shit. All the roads were dirt, and their driveway was really a cleared spot not too far from their porch, and the neighbors’ was the same. The main road was a full two miles away, and once you got out there nothing but trees stretched for a good long while, until finally you got to the sprawl of convenience stores and strip centers, signifiers of Atlanta before it was Atlanta.

Of course Rick knew where the courthouse was. He was a cop, so he probably knew where all of them were. But that weren’t right, because Rick didn’t have to go to courthouses too often, except to testify, like he had at Carol’s trial. In them cases he went to whichever courthouse matched the victim or the crime or the person being prosecuted, so where it was could vary; Rick didn’t exactly have to know courthouses that were close to them. Maybe they were just going to one he knew.

When they got there, Rick seemed to know what he was doing. Daryl thought it was maybe because he’d done it before, but after they’d shown their drivers’ licenses and paid fifty-six dollars to get some papers, Rick said they had an appointment with someone else there. Belatedly, Daryl realized Rick had called ahead. He’d called ahead and found out what to do and where to go, where two people like them could do it without muss or fuss, and Daryl hadn’t even known what goddamn clothes to put on.

The other person they had to see—the _officiant_ , Rick had said—was real nice but business-like. She pointed to a line on the papers, where Daryl scribbled his name and put a date. Rick signed his name too. Both their names, one on top of the other. Then they had to take the papers back to someone else.

The whole thing took twenty-eight minutes, and Rick had paid on a credit card, and Daryl couldn’t even remember whether anyone had said anything. They must’ve said things—the lady must’ve told him where to sign, and Rick must’ve told her who they were; Rick had to have said more when they came back to file the papers, but Daryl couldn’t remember a word except “officiant.” It weren’t like the movies, where a guy stood in front and yapped, and the people faced each other and said things, and everyone else watched them and clapped. Or did they clap? They threw stuff, in the movies. Rice.

Daryl couldn’t remember whether Rick had even said anything to him or not, but he could remember Rick hadn’t touched him. They hadn’t touched in that whole place, nothing like that.

Then it was over and they went back to the car. It was over.

No one had stopped them. No one had thrown things at them—rice or bricks or other things—and Daryl hadn’t lost his nerves and Rick hadn’t changed his mind at the last minute. God hadn’t smited them, and something about that was strangely disappointing. Anticlimactic. Like maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it had never mattered, being queer and being a faggot and being with Rick. 

After five minutes had passed Daryl realized he and Rick were just sitting in the car, and Rick hadn’t even started it yet. The air was getting hot.

At last Daryl looked at Rick.

“I packed a bag of your stuff,” Rick said slowly. He was looking straight ahead at their parking space, one of his hands on the gear shift, the other on the steering wheel, like he was ready to start driving as soon as Daryl said the word. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I got us a hotel.”

 _But we got a house_ , Daryl thought wildly.

Finally Rick looked at him. “We can just go home. Or we can go camping, if you did wanna go somewhere. I just thought you might like somewhere different—something we didn’t normally do.”

 _Why?_ Daryl wanted to ask, and then remembered what they’d just done.

Oh.

“The hotel’s downtown,” said Rick. “It’s nice.”

 _Oh_. 

Daryl looked at the car clock, but the car wasn’t on. He didn’t wanna take out his phone to find out the time. They’d left the house at nine-thirty. “It’s morning,” he said finally.

“I got us early check-in.”

 _Oh_. 

Rick had packed his bag. Got a hotel. Got early check-in, found the courthouse, made an appointment, dressed in fancy clothes. It mattered, Daryl realized. It mattered to Rick. 

“We don’t have to if you don’t wanna,” Rick said again.

“I wanna,” Daryl said immediately.

“Yeah?” said Rick.

Daryl chewed on his lip a bit. “I didn’t—didn’t think of nothing. Nothing like that. For us to do.”

Rick turned the key in the ignition. “You did enough,” he said, and started pulling out.

Rick still had his ring—glinting on the hand confidently maneuvering the steering wheel—but now there were papers behind the ring, promises. Daryl could still see their names on that paper. One on top of the other. 

When they got to the hotel—the _Ritz-Carlton_ hotel—Rick circled around and parked in one of the downtown garages, one of the ones that were thirty dollars for overnight parking.

Once they parked, Rick’s hand brushed over his in the darkness of the garage. “I’ll text you the room number,” he said, his voice low. Sultry, because they were gonna fuck in that room with the room number in the fancy hotel, with their early check-in. But then Rick was getting out of the car, grabbing the bags out of the back, walking through the garage.

This morning, Daryl had done something Rick had been willing to do for years. _Years_. At one point, Rick had even actively wanted it—he used to invite Daryl as his plus one to parties, wanted to go to weddings together, wanted to pick out mattresses together, that kind of thing. But Rick had stopped asking years ago. Right around when Daryl had said no to that joint bank account. 

Daryl knew that Rick had been disappointed, but Rick had accepted it. He’d accepted it. He knew how it was and he was okay with it; he’d always been okay with it. If they’d’ve parked at the hotel, a valet would’ve taken their car. They’d’ve had to go inside and check in together—two guys at the check-in desk for just one room. Just one bed. 

So Rick had found another place to park. 

The car door opened. Rick stood there with a plastic card. “The elevator needs a key,” he said, and gave the card to Daryl.

Daryl took it.

“I’ll text you,” Rick said, and left again.

Daryl should follow him. He knew he should follow him, go in there with him, let people see them. Let people see two men go into the same room together, but Rick had known that would be hard for Daryl so he’d made it easy on him. He’d made everything so easy. The plastic of the keycard bit into his hand, Daryl was holding it so tightly. 

At last Rick texted the room number and Daryl made his way over to the hotel, the elevator. All the way up. When the elevator reached the top, Daryl almost didn’t step out before the doors closed again. At last he pushed himself out, looking at the gold signs on the wall to tell him where the room was. 

Sliding the card into the door lock, Daryl saw the light go green, and pulled it out. Turned the handle of the door, and opened it.

Rick pulled him inside, shut the door, pushed him against it, and kissed him. Long and leisurely, a comfortable kiss, but a thorough one, one of those kisses where Daryl was thinking too hard and forgot what to do. He’d already dropped the keycard. “Got something for you,” Rick said, pulling away after a hot few minutes.

The room was so fucking fancy. So big there was both a bedroom and living room-type area, the huge fucking bed some distance from a huge fucking couch, a huge fucking mahogany table. On the far wall long curtains draped, partially open, around a balcony. On the huge fucking table there was a silver bucket with bottle tops sticking out. Champagne on ice, just like the fucking movies. 

_Honeymoon suite_ , Daryl’s brain supplied, unhelpfully. 

Rick had gone all out. Got them a hotel—this hotel, goddamn bottles of champagne—but he still hadn’t expected Daryl to go to the check-in desk together. Something struggled in Daryl's chest, so painful Daryl had to clench his jaw, close his eyes slowly against the sting. 

Rick was over at the bag he’d brought—the bag with their stuff in it, the bag Rick had packed without Daryl knowing it. Fiddling with something, he finally turned back to Daryl. He had a ring in his hand.

It weren’t like Rick’s ring, smooth and classy. Weren’t no _brushed satin._ Instead it was rough, like something hewn straight outta rock. No one would look at that ring and think of doves and white dresses and promises; they’d just think: badass.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Rick said. “But I want you to have it.”

It mattered to Rick. It mattered so fucking much to him, but he never would’ve asked for it, and it weren’t because Rick was so demur. It weren’t because Rick was so unselfish, never taking a thing for himself; weren’t because he was the only one who had ever compromised. It was because it was enough, what they had. It was more than enough, and Rick had liked it; he’d been satisfied. Rick had been more than satisfied, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t always wanted this. 

The thing inside Daryl’s chest hurt, like something struggling to get out.

“Come here,” Daryl said roughly, but he didn’t wait for Rick to come. Instead Daryl went to him. Went to him, grabbed him, put his mouth on him. It weren’t even a real kiss. Daryl didn’t want to kiss him; he wanted to get close. He wanted to get closer than kissing. 

He wanted to be as close as possible, and Rick was still holding that ring so Daryl took it and put it on the table beside the bed, dragged Rick with him, yanked at Rick’s shirt so they could get closer. Kept yanking at it. Daryl needed to get it off, get underneath, that smooth skin underneath. Rick’s skin, still too pale, over Rick’s body which was still too thin—Rick’s ribs. Rick’s chest. Daryl needed to see them, touch them, press up against them, closer.

Rick’s shirt wasn’t coming off without the jacket on top coming off too, the tie. Daryl yanked at them and Rick got the picture, shrugging out of the jacket, loosening the tie, but then Rick’s hands were on him, on Daryl’s shirt. Yeah. Yeah, that was a good idea; Daryl needed to get off his own shirt so they could be skin to skin, so Daryl could feel Rick’s skin right up against his, so they could press together. Christ. Daryl needed to touch all of him. He needed to touch all of him, right now.

Daryl’s hands went for Rick’s pants, got them unfastened. He could reach inside and get Rick’s dick—fuck, he loved Rick’s dick so much—but it wasn’t what Daryl needed right now. He didn’t want it right now; he needed to get as close as possible, closer even than sex. He needed to get Rick naked and himself naked and touch every part of himself with a part of Rick.

So Daryl started pulling down Rick’s pants, but it wasn’t going fast enough and there were Rick’s shoes to consider, so Daryl pushed him down on the bed. 

“Lube’s in the bag,” said Rick.

Daryl came back to himself a little bit. “What?”

“Lube,” said Rick. “It’s in the bag.”

Daryl went to the bag because Rick said so, got the lube.

When he came back to the bed, Rick was on it, naked. Naked, except . . . Daryl looked for Rick’s hand. Picked it up. The ring was on it, and the ring Rick had gotten for Daryl was on the bedside table. Daryl held Rick’s hand and squeezed, slowly got on top of Rick. Started kissing him—a real kiss, this time. A dirty one, impolite. All tongue and teeth. Not for the first time, Daryl wished his tongue was longer so he could fuck it in Rick’s throat, hot and wet and tasting Rick all the way down. 

That was a sick thing to wish, probably. Fucked up. Daryl had never told Rick about it. There weren’t any animals with tongues who could do that, anyway. Anteaters, maybe.

So Daryl got his fingers wet instead, slippery with the lube. Then he pressed them between Rick’s legs—not gentle as he should have been. Abrupt. Possessive. Rick opened to them anyway, adjusting his hips, letting his legs fall open a bit for the intrusion. One of Daryl’s hands was at Rick’s ass but the other still held Rick’s hand. Rick’s other hand moved to tug at Daryl’s pants. Daryl realized he still had them on, and he wanted them off.

“Gonna fuck you,” he said, unnecessarily, but it was the first time he’d realized it.

“Then do it,” Rick said, shifting again under him. Rick’s cock was hard and leaking, dragging against Daryl’s fancy pants.

That was nice.

That was so fucking nice that for a moment Daryl thought about doing Rick that way—making Rick drag his dick over and over against the silky fabric, letting Rick rut against him while Daryl was trapped in his pants and underwear, hard and wanting to touch Rick’s dick but not letting himself. Daryl could make Rick come that way, come all over the nice courthouse pants and Daryl would come inside of them, get himself all messy, but then Daryl realized his fingers were still inside of Rick.

Rick was hot and nice inside, so tight, and Daryl remembered how he had wanted to get as close as possible. He needed to get as close as possible, inside of Rick, so finally he took his fingers out and fumbled with his pants. He should really take them off, but his cock was so hard and Rick was under him, Rick’s hot hole wet now, clenching up again in anticipation of Daryl’s cock. 

Daryl had to get his cock inside of it, wrapped tight with Rick’s flesh, Rick’s ass holding him and squeezing him, Rick taking him. So Daryl did it, got his pants halfway down, then braced himself with one arm, held his cock with the other, aiming it to press inside. Found Rick’s hole and pushed, and pushed, and that first slow slide was always the best and worst, the head of his cock squeezed so tight and then more, and more, and more. Rick always took it so good.

A hand brushed over his, and Daryl remembered Rick was there with him, opening for his cock, taking him, holding him, and Daryl finally let himself breathe. His cock was inside Rick’s body up to the balls.

“Come on,” said Rick, ringed hand squeezing Daryl’s, Rick’s other hand on Daryl’s ass—a sharp, firm tug.

“Yeah,” Daryl breathed, and relaxed, pulling out a little, then driving back in.

“Yeah,” Rick echoed, then tilted his hips, allowing Daryl to slide back out.

“Fuck.” Daryl slid back, then drove in again, Rick’s hips rocking to meet him. “Fuck.” They did it again, building a rhythm—Daryl sliding out, Rick’s hips rocking back, Daryl fucking in, Rick thrusting up. Again and again, long strokes, solid fucking, each thrust inside of Rick better than all of the previous ones, so hot and perfect and close. 

God, they were so close, each of them so close together, Rick’s hard cock dragging on Daryl’s stomach every time. To think Daryl had thought about doing it with his pants on. Daryl arched his back, trying to get more of his abs on Rick’s cock, give him more friction, and Rick tightened in response, bucking harder. 

“Yeah, so good,” Rick murmured. “Do it to me.”

Rick twisted under him, hand on Daryl’s ass drawing Daryl in harder—harder and harder; Daryl was fucking Rick so hard, now. Wasn’t gonna last much longer, usually this went on forever, but it was so intense, and Rick’s ringed hand was on his and now his mouth was near Daryl’s ear, teeth scraping Daryl’s neck.

“How do you like it?” Rick grabbed a handful of Daryl’s ass and pulled him in even harder. His whisper was low and dirty. “How do you like fucking your husband?”

Daryl stopped. Looked at him in shock, and then he came, his hips wild, wave after wave cresting inside of Rick. He knew he called out, wasn’t sure what he said. Could hear himself moaning, but the only thing he could think was, _How do you like fucking your husband?_

“Rick,” he panted, still coming. “Rick. Rick, Rick.”

“So good,” Rick was saying, and his arms were around him now. “You did me so good. I’ve got you; give me all that hot come; you’re so good.”

“Rick.” Daryl shuddered, either the last of his orgasm or an aftershock; he couldn’t tell. It had gone on for so long and it had been so good, and Daryl could still hear what Rick had said, those words—that one word.

Christ.

Jesus Christ.

Usually Daryl would have stayed collapsed on Rick for a while, a good long while, but now his hand was reaching out for the nightstand, fumbling. Had to pull himself off of Rick to get to it, slide out of Rick’s body, slimy and unpleasant, but then Daryl was over far enough and got his hand around it, the ring. Had to move even farther to do what he wanted, which was to put it on. Put it on and then jack Rick off with it, that was what he wanted to do.

He wanted it so bad he couldn’t even think about it. Just the thought of it was making him him want to get hard again.

So Daryl put the ring on, the rough, masculine ring Rick had gotten him. It fit perfectly and Daryl had to see it on Rick’s dick, so he wrapped his hand around Rick’s thick cock and started stroking. And once Daryl’s hand was there he wanted to taste it, taste Rick’s cock, taste his hand on Rick’s cock, taste the ring on his hand on Rick’s cock, get his tongue all over it. This definitely wasn’t a normal fetish, licking a ring, licking the skin all around the ring and trying to taste dripping cock between your fingers while you did it. Fuck, Daryl had always been a greedy slut. 

Daryl felt a thrill go through him, because he was a greedy slut and he felt so good being one. He got crazy sometimes, crazy just like this—wanting to touch and taste while still not quite knowing what he wanted, wanting to be closer and wetter and messier and Rick; he wanted Rick. Daryl felt frenzied with it and he was just going for it even though it weren't a good blowjob, weren't even a good handjob really—but Rick liked it. That was the best part. Rick liked it when Daryl got mindless, eager like a stupid bitch in heat. Rick didn't think it was stupid; he thought it was hot; it made Rick mindless with lust too. It turned Rick on when Daryl got weird like this, when he got so desperate that he did the weird things he wanted, even the things that didn't have names.

Rick liked it. He was gonna get off on it; he was gonna come from it, Daryl could tell. Rick was gonna come on Daryl’s face and Daryl was getting excited just thinking of the come on his face, except he didn’t know whether he wanted Rick to come on his face or in his hand more, the hand with the ring on it, _how do you like fucking your husband_ , Daryl didn’t know; he didn’t know; he was so turned on even though his dick was still soft; he’d just come; he loved Rick so much. He wanted him so, so much.

“Rick,” Daryl said, desperate. He just needed Rick to say more things or do something, bite him maybe, slap him, fuck against his face with his big wet dick so Daryl felt just like a whore, something, anything, say more things, maybe, use that word again.

“Yeah,” was all Rick said, and he took Daryl’s hand. He took Daryl’s hand with its ring in his own hand with his own ring and he held them together over his cock. “Such a good husband,” he said, and then he came—perfectly, on cue, without a single other stroke and it was beautiful. 

Everything about him was beautiful. His thin body arching off the bed, those pretty lips stretching wide for a second, Rick’s closed eyes, his nice red cock. His perfect cock and their perfect hands with their rings. _Such a good husband._

Fuck.

Daryl waited until Rick was through the aftershocks, until he was wet and shivering, panting on the bed. Then he moved up so Rick could watch Daryl lick their hands clean. It was something Daryl liked but Rick loved; it made Rick a little wild, seeing Daryl lick it up. For Daryl it was even better because of the rings; he got to lick the come off of them and lick the one on Rick’s hand and the one on his own.

“Daryl,” Rick said, his eyes so dark, and then Daryl kissed him as well.

“I like it all right,” Daryl said, when they were done kissing. “To answer your question.”

Rick huffed a laugh.

Knowing he’d said the right thing, Daryl curled up next to him, their hands still clasped. He didn’t want to let go.

“Thank you,” Rick said, after another minute.

Daryl had been drifting, but he opened his eyes, and Rick was looking down at him. Daryl squeezed his hand.

“I know it’s hard for you,” said Rick.

Daryl propped himself up a little so he could look Rick in the eye—those cornflower blue eyes, serious and kind. Daryl remembered the first time he’d seen Rick, how he’d hated him for looking good in a cop uniform. Daryl remembered when he’d first started wanting Rick, how he’d hated himself for the way Rick made him feel like family. 

“Nah,” Daryl said, squeezing Rick’s hand again. “You make it easy.”

*

Daryl had never had the money to throw at a hotel room like this before and he probably wouldn’t have done it, even if he were that rich. He didn’t like other people coming in and washing his sheets, messing with his things. He didn’t understand why there were so many towels, what all the little bottles on the sink were for. There was just the one room—even this big ass room, among hundreds of other rooms, and it made Daryl feel trapped.

“We have the room until Sunday,” Rick said. “I know it’s not your thing. I just wanted to—get away for a bit, and I didn’t think I could get the hunting gear together without you finding out.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” Daryl said. “You just didn’t wanna do it all day on the ground.”

Rick just smiled. “You already forget last October?”

Daryl felt his cheeks go pink. Rick had tied him to a fucking tree. “That was standing up,” he managed to say.

“We can check out early, if you want,” said Rick.

“No,” Daryl said quickly. “I—I like those chocolate covered strawberry. Things.”

Rick just laughed. “Come on. The bath tub has jets.”

Daryl was spread out on the bed, feeling lazy after all the fucking and strawberries. “I don’t need no jets.”

“Sure,” Rick said and kissed him. “But how about one of them fills your ass while I fill your mouth? Would you like that?” Rick kissed him again. “Getting fucked at both ends?”

“Rick,” Daryl breathed.

“Then get your lazy ass off the bed.”

They mostly had sex, though they went out to dinner, once. Daryl smoked on the balcony, and they had the champagne. They used the bath tub three times and did hygienically questionable things with the strawberries, and then it was Sunday afternoon, so they packed up and went home. They both had work on Monday, so they had dinner, fed Cat, and then went to sleep. Just like any other day, except there was a paper somewhere with their names on it, one on top of the other.

*

Daryl hadn’t really thought about the ring all that much. Wore it because it was badass and Rick had given it to him, but Rick had said, _you don’t have to wear it_. Daryl hadn’t thought it through until he stepped into the garage Monday morning. He hadn’t been thinking about it at all and suddenly he was hyper-aware, nervous about it. Like what if someone asked?

They wouldn’t ask. The guys at the garage were all his friends, but they weren’t the type to notice something like that. Even if they did they wouldn’t ask. Gonzales wore like three rings and no one ever asked what they were. Some guys just wore them, not a big deal.

But Daryl got self-conscious about his. Took it off and slipped it in his pocket, except later in the day he was fixing a carburetor, saw his empty finger, and didn’t like it. Christ, what had he been thinking; he was a pussy. Stepped away for a five minute break and took the ring back out of his pocket. Looked at it. It was a fucking awesome ring.

What did it matter who knew; most of the guys at the garage knew Rick. Knew he lived with Rick. Had never asked about the specific arrangement but had likely figured it out and if they hadn’t, they were dumb. It was their own fault. So what if they knew what he and Rick had done Saturday.

Anyone could know. It wasn’t that big of a deal, Daryl thought, slipping the ring on his greasy finger. 

As the ring touched the web of his hand, panic struck. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

Shit.

Shit.

Fucking shit.

Daryl rushed over to the office, where his boss was flipping through a pile of papers. “I gotta—I gotta take a break,” Daryl spluttered. “It’s an emergency.”

“Yeah,” said his boss. “Okay,” like it weren’t a big deal, but it was a huge deal. It was a huge deal, and Daryl hadn’t acted like it wasn't. He’d acted like he was the only person it affected, but that wasn’t the case. That wasn’t the case at all, and Rick had acted that way for him, but it weren’t fair. It weren’t fair, and Daryl went behind the garage, where he used to smoke, and got the phone out of his pocket with his dirty hand, and dialed Rick.

“Hey,” Rick said, answering on the third ring.

“You gotta tell Carl!”

“What?”

“Carl,” said Daryl. “You gotta tell him—you gotta tell him about Saturday.”

“Slow down,” said Rick.

“We didn’t invite him,” said Daryl.

“It’s okay,” said Rick.

“But he’s your son,” said Daryl.

“It’s okay,” Rick said again.

“Rick, we got _married_. You gotta tell him.”

There was a long pause. When Rick spoke, his voice sounded odd. “Daryl, I told him weeks ago.”

Daryl’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Judy too,” said Rick. “Daryl.” A long pause that somehow sounded painful. “I didn’t think we were keeping it a secret,” Rick said quietly.

 _We weren’t,_ Daryl tried to say, but he wondered if he had. He hadn’t told Carol or Sophia, the closest thing he had to family outside of prison. He’d worried over it silently, privately, winding all his fears and desires around the date of the twenty-seventh, but never actually facing it. He hadn’t once thought about telling anybody else, but here Rick had told Carl weeks ago, and Judith. “Lori?” Daryl heard himself say.

“I told Judith,” Rick said, “so yeah, I told Lori. And Shane knows.”

Daryl and Rick didn’t have all that much to do with Lori and Shane, but they still saw them sometimes—birthdays, holidays. Even after Rick had told them he was going out with Daryl, some part of Daryl had thought maybe there was a different way to look at it. Like Daryl was the cool best friend, a neat uncle. Like he and Rick weren't—they weren’t a real thing. Not like Lori and Shane. 

It was an asshole thing to think. Not just to Rick, but to Judith. Daryl had never been a goddamn uncle, never. It didn’t matter that she called him Daryl; he’d always been a dad. Daryl swallowed hard. “Carol?”

“I didn’t say anything to Carol and you know it,” Rick said, sounding annoyed. “Look, Daryl. If this is about the ring—”

“I forgot.” Daryl’s voice croaked.

“What?”

“It ain’t about the ring. I just—I forgot. That you’re supposed to tell them.”

“You’re not supposed to.” Rick still sounded a little annoyed. “You can do whatever you want.”

“But they deserve to know,” said Daryl.

Rick sighed.

“It ain’t about the ring,” Daryl said. “I’m wearing it.”

“You don’t have to,” said Rick. “That’s not why I gave it to you.”

“But I’m wearing it anyway,” said Daryl. “It’s a badass fucking ring.”

Rick huffed a little laugh. “Yeah. See. _That’s_ why I gave it to you.”

 _Can you say you’re my husband again,_ Daryl wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to ask. “See you tonight?” he said instead.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Have a good day, Daryl.”

“You too,” said Daryl, and they hung up.

Afterwards, Daryl looked at his phone. Scrolled through his contacts, found Sophia. Looked at it for a moment. She was gonna be the easy one. He touched her name and then her number, so the phone would dial, then took a deep breath. Brought the phone up to his face.

*

Daryl told Carol in person. Didn’t seem right to call her on the phone, not after everything between the two of them, so he arranged to see her after work. Let Rick know where he was by text, didn’t want to listen to the soft voice Rick would use, how happy it’d make him. Christ. 

When Daryl got to Carol’s house he was sorta hoping she’d just notice the ring, start the conversation himself so he wouldn’t have to, but she never seemed to be looking in the right place. After two minutes it seemed stupid that he was there prevaricating when he’d come specifically to tell her, so he told her.

“Oh,” Carol said. She looked oddly blank for a minute. “Did you tell Sophia?”

Daryl shuffled his feet. “Called her this morning.”

“Oh.”

“Carol.” Daryl reached out for her, thought better of it, and let his hand drop back down by his side. “I wanted to tell you in person; that’s why I told her first. I . . . I’m sorry I didn’t invite you.”

“Invite me?”

“Or tell you about it.” Daryl shoved his hands into his jean pockets, ring and all. “I should’ve told you about it.”

“Why?”

Daryl looked at her warily, wanting to shake back his bangs but not doing it. They sorta felt like protection, because he didn’t get what she meant. “I didn’t meant to—I didn’t mean to hide it.”

Carol huffed a little breath. “Daryl. Getting married is a personal thing. You can throw a big wedding and invite the whole town. You can sign a piece of paper at a courthouse. It’s between you, your spouse, and your taxes.”

“And your family.”

Carol’s eyes went soft. “If you want it to be.”

“It’s supposed to be,” said Daryl.

“I’m glad you shared it with me.” Carol came closer, put her arms around him. 

Daryl hugged her, hard, her lean body up against his and sometimes he wanted to hold her forever, never let her go. Such strength was in these fine lines, a kindness and understanding he had never felt before. When he did let her go, Carol’s eyes were a little wet.

“I’m glad you did it,” Carol said. “You deserve to be happy with who you are.”

“Yeah.” Daryl smiled, just a little. “I got you.”

*

A week later, Daryl opened a door and walked down a hall. Stopped at the check-in desk, told the guy there his name. Signed in on the clipboard, let the guard search him. Daryl had left his ring in the car for this part, even though they probably wouldn’t’ve seen it as a weapon. You never knew, and then Daryl followed the guard down another long series of hallways.

At last they got to the visitation room, and the guard showed Daryl to a table. Then he left, and Daryl looked around at the white room with its metal tables bolted to the floor. Some of the other tables already had people at them—inmates talking to their mothers, brothers, friends.

Then the door at the end of the room opened, and Merle filled it up. Had that same expression he had every time Daryl came to see him—a smile with that sardonic twist to it, like he couldn’t be too happy, lest Daryl somehow in some way finally get the upper hand. The smile brightened a little when Merle finally locked eyes on him, and Merle sauntered over to the table in his jumpsuit and chains.

Sat down, and the guard unlocked him, told him how long he had, then moved away.

“’Sup, little brother?” Merle said. There was always a taunt in his voice, but Daryl could hear underneath—the eagerness, pleasure that Daryl was visiting, fear that Daryl might decide to leave too soon. “Anything new happening?”

Daryl looked at him, and it was still just Merle. Same as always. A little thinner, maybe. A little grayer. Daryl had visited him every month for nine years, and the bastard had lost none of the looming threat in his smirk, none of his defensiveness in the hunch of his shoulders. Still tougher and meaner than all the other bastards, still scared underneath like a child.

Daryl almost said no, like he had all one hundred and eight other times.

Instead he said, “You remember Officer Grimes?”

Merle scowled. “The one who put me away in here? Yeah, I remember him.”

“Okay,” said Daryl. “Now, let me tell you something. It’s about me and a girl called Sophia.”


End file.
